


Young and Beautiful

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gossip Girl Fusion, HaiKise Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 08:18:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7707682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryouta’s sure this thought will make less sense when he’s sober, but it seems pretty profound right now</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young and Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> this is supposed to be gg au but idek if it really is....laughs a lot anyway yeah. haikise week day 7!

The doors close and Ryouta breathes out, not that it smells any better right now than it has the whole train ride. Even at full blast, the air conditioner can’t kill the dank and putrid odor of the subway (and it’s for the best not to think about the components; Ryouta hasn’t even tried and it makes him mildly nauseous). He doesn’t know how Shougo can stand to take the train regularly and why he really refuses to take a cab. He has money; he has his mom’s fucking black Amex on top of the couple hundred dollars he always carries, and it’s less than forty including tip to get over to the east side at this hour on a Friday night. Ryouta’s not even sure why he’d agreed to do this with Shougo in the first place (actually, he does; Shougo’s a belligerent drunk and letting him have his way on this is better than having to give in on something else or have him punch someone, and it’ll give him time to sober up before they get home).

They reach the next station; Ryouta checks his Patek Phillipe and frowns. It’s been four minutes and they aren’t even at the next express stop. Shougo closes his eyes and leans his head against Ryouta’s shoulder, and he’s got to be really drunk if he’s doing this in public but it’s actually sort of cute. It’s like the way the sleeves of his Loro Piana blazer are pushed up and rumpled the way his uniform blazer always was in elementary school, only then the knees of his khakis were smudged with dirt and he’d been messier with his anger, too, not so tightly coiled and volatile the way he is now. Again, the doors close, and as they pull out of the station the door between the cars open and a man steps through.

“Good evening, folks!”

Shougo has the right idea in feigning sleep; Ryouta considers doing the same.

“I’m not here to apologize or give you no sob story about needing money for dinner or a bus ticket or anything like that; I’m not passing out my hat for you to fill. But it’s Friday night, man!”

Ryouta hates being part of a forced captive audience, and he would very much like to roll his eyes or get off the train right now. Shougo sighs; it’s hard to tell if he’s actually asleep or not.

“I just need some weed money. Can you help me out so I can have a little fun tonight, too?”

His honesty is not refreshing, although clearly a couple of people think it is, because they’re dropping dollar bills into his Starbucks cup. Ryouta stares straight ahead as the man passes them; for a second Ryouta thinks he’s just going to move along and shake his cup at the next people but then he points.

“I don’t need nothing from you; you just take care of your friend there.”

Ryouta smiles, tight and unforgiving, and the man’s already moved on, murmuring something about maybe getting a whole dime for himself.

“I can take care of myself,” Shougo mutters, just loud enough for Ryouta to hear.

Ryouta feels his face soften, and damn it, Shougo pretending to be tough isn’t supposed to be this cute, especially not when he can actually fool people into thinking he’s menacing (or when he’s wearing those knockoff Brooks Brothers slacks that probably came from The Gap or some place like that). Shougo half-sleeps the rest of the ride and Ryouta has to pull him to his feet at forty-second street when they get off; he doesn’t even know if Shougo wants to take a cab or switch trains or what. The roar of the constant crowd of clueless tourists seems to revive him; he yawns and pushes through them as they make their way toward the exit, and he reaches for Ryouta’s hand.

“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”

“You’ll see,” says Shougo.

The seven train isn’t much of a surprise, although at least it’s waiting for them.

“Queens?”

Shougo rolls his eyes. “Home.”

He’s leaning on the bar; at least no one else is in this car but them.

“You doing okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” says Shougo.

And then he kisses Ryouta; his lips are numb and taste like one of those fruity cocktails he claims are too gross and girly to drink and his tongue is pushing but it doesn’t know where to go and he’s kissing like he’s thirteen again only this time Ryouta knows a lot better than he did then about what makes a good kiss. The doors close behind them; Ryouta pulls back.

Shougo’s already breathing hard; he pushes the sleeves of his blazer up again and nearly falls as the train starts to move.

They get off two stops later; the foot traffic isn’t bad once they hit Park and the only things rising above them are the prewar apartment buildings much like their own. Shougo pulls out a cigarette and fumbles a little trying to light it; he offers one to Ryouta but Ryouta declines. He’s not in a smoking mood and if he doesn’t, Shougo might not finish his and he won’t smell too obvious and if Ryouta’s sister is still up when they get home she won’t yell at them.

Ryouta’s hand finds Shougo’s; his fingers find the peeling calluses from fighting in Shougo’s knuckles, the cigarette burn on the edge of his thumb from trying to smoke while he was dead wasted a few nights ago, the splits at the end of his nails. They like to pretend that all this, this whatever the hell they are to each other (best friends? Boyfriends? Friends with ill-defined benefits?) is so complicated, but most of the time it really isn’t. Most of the time it’s just the two of them, reaching for each other until they can grab a real hold and then they grip too hard and have to let go (and Ryouta’s sure this thought will make less sense when he’s sober, but it seems pretty profound right now).


End file.
